


prelude to history

by jamesbuchanan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesbuchanan/pseuds/jamesbuchanan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before HYDRA, before the fall, and before the nosedive into the Arctic: Steve had Bucky and Bucky had Steve. Just two kids from Brooklyn who were meant for each other. Not war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prelude to history

**Author's Note:**

> there may be some historically incorrect facts about the draft and enlistment in the 30s and 40s but it's cool. 
> 
> most of this stemmed from steve and bucky's character pages on the mcu wiki
> 
> enjoy

**AUGUST 1936**

 

“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck, but it’s just…” Steve loses his words as he begins to search for his keys.

“We’ll put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids,” Bucky reasons while Steve continues to dig through his coat pockets. “It’ll be fun, all you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.” He turns around and pushes a cracked brick aside, revealing the spare key to the apartment. _I know you better than anyone else,_ Bucky thinks to himself, bending down to grab the key. With a sigh he hands it over to Steve.

“Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.” He holds the key firm in his hand, no doubt leaving indents of the metal on his fingertips. He gives Bucky a hard look, one that says _Just trust me on this._ Bucky doesn’t buy it for a second; never has and probably never will.

His eyes follow a crack in the concrete while he tries to find the words. Words that won’t set Steve off. Words that won’t give Steve the idea that Bucky thinks that he can’t do this. Bucky knows better than that. He knows _Steve_ better than that.

When the words sound right in his head he finally looks up at Steve, shaking his head. “The thing is, you don’t have to.” He moves in closer, wraps a hand around Steve’s shoulder. He watches every move Bucky makes.

“I’m with ya ’til the end of the line, pal.”

He gives Steve a pleading look, one that never goes anywhere past his eyes, trying to get his point across in the most understanding way. And when Steve gives him a smile, albeit a small one, Bucky knows he’s said the right thing.

“Do you wanna come in?” Steve asks over his shoulder while unlocking the front door.

Bucky smiles to himself. “Of course I do.” Bucky shuts the door behind him as he crosses the threshold, moving to the kitchen. He finds the chamomile tea and sets the kettle on the stovetop like it’s second nature. He’s so used to being here, so used to doing things as if he were in his own house. As he’s pulling two mugs from the cupboard he recalls a brief memory of Sarah Rogers doing the same thing, moving in the same way he had always seen her from the kitchen table next to Steve for years. _God, I wish she were still here,_ he thinks.

He remembers what she told him just a few days before she passed. It was the last time Bucky saw her. She’d taken his hand in her frail, cold one, squared her jaw, and gave him a serious look. One he'd Steve wear so many times before.

_“You stick with my son, James. Look out for him. He means the world to me.”_

_“Ma’am,” he says softly, placing his other hand over hers, “he means the world to me too.”_

Tears prick at his eyes but he pushes them back, forces himself to be strong. He braces a hand against the countertop to steady himself, then pushes the mugs towards the edge of the counter, closer to the stove. He grabs a small jar of honey from another cupboard, Steve can only drink his tea with honey, and sets it by the mugs.

Bucky loosens his tie a bit on the way back towards the couch. Even though his tie isn’t as tight as it was before he left the house that morning, he still feels like he can’t breathe. He thinks he's going to feel like that for a while.

Steve is sitting on the edge of one of the couch cushions, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and shoulders slumped. Bucky doesn’t miss a step, continuing over towards the couch and sitting down carefully next to him.

He waits a moment or two—until he’s certain Steve’s not going to jerk away at the slightest touch—before he snakes an arm across the span of Steve’s upper back, hand hanging limply off his left shoulder. Bucky waits the same amount of time before his hand moves to Steve’s neck, knuckles brushing back and forth against his skin soothingly.

Steve leans into Bucky’s touch, his head never leaving his hands. Bucky doesn’t mind it so long as he can still see Steve’s back rising and falling softly and slowly. When he finally looks up at Bucky, it breaks his heart.

He looks even paler, his lips are dry like he’s dehydrated, and his eyes are red; but there are no tears. He’s trying to hold them back… _because of me,_ Bucky’s brain fills in the last part and he can’t stand it. Steve doesn’t have to do this, doesn’t have to pretend he’s fine just because Bucky’s in the room. That’s not the Steve Rogers he knows.

“Hey,” Bucky says gently. Steve looks at him with this sudden realization; like he’s snapped himself out of some trance. “Hey,” Bucky says again, “you want me to stay over? We’ll drink some tea, get you out of those clothes…go to sleep?” He suggests.

Steve nods slowly.

Bucky’s thumb takes up the movement his knuckles previously were, tracing small circles on the side of Steve’s neck. “Yeah?” He asks, hoping to get a vocal answer this time. “You’d like that?”

“Yes,” Steve says hoarsely.

Bucky gives him a soft smile, leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Steve sighs just at the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. This thing they have between them, the kisses and the touches, it’s…something. Bucky’s not sure what to call it. It’s love, yeah, but Bucky’s never gone so far as to call it anything else. They’re just Bucky and Steve; Steve and Bucky, always have and always will be. Sometimes they both just need the extra contact. More often than not that’s a complete lie and Bucky just can’t keep his hands to himself. He needs Steve just as much as Steve needs him; especially now. They’re all they’ve got.

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, demanding Bucky’s attention. Steve leans forward in an attempt to close the distance again when Bucky pulls away, and he can’t help but let out a small chuckle. 

“Go up to bed,” he says, getting to his feet. Steve stands beside him. “I’ll be there in a minute or two, alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve practically whispers it, that’s how shot his voice is, and turns towards the door leading to the bedroom before Bucky can comment on it.

Bucky turns the burner off when he gets to the kitchen, watching the angry trail of stream shooting up from the spout grow smaller and smaller. He pours the tea into the mugs with only a slightly shaky hand, and dumps a rather large spoonful of honey into Steve’s, stirring slowly. He takes baby steps to the bedroom, careful as not to spill any tea onto the hardwood, and sets both mugs down on the nightstand when he successfully makes it in the room.

Steve is sitting at the edge of his mattress, just beginning to work on the buttons at the cuffs of his shirt. The buttons going down the front of his dress shirt are already undone, and when he’s got both of his sleeves unbuttoned, he peels out of the shirt and tosses it to the floor as an afterthought. Bucky eyes him carefully, feeling like his tie is tightening itself back around his throat.

He undoes it then, sliding it off around his neck and shrugging out of his jacket. He works slowly and thoughtfully, talking himself through it in his head. _Untie your shoes, take them off. Undo your belt, pull it through the loops. Unzip your pants, pull out your shirt. Pull down your pants, undo the buttons…_

Before he even really knows what he’s doing, he’s crawling into the small bed with Steve, back pressed against the wall and Steve’s back pressed against his chest. He drapes an arm across Steve’s waist and wriggles the other one under his head. Bucky looks over him, staring at the tendrils of steam rising from the mugs sitting on the nightstand. He watches them create broken spirals as he tries to find the words to say next.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“ _Bucky._ ” Steve sounds choked up.

“Hey, hey, Stevie, look at me a minute,” Bucky says soothingly, watching Steve turn over in his arms to face him. The look he gives is the saddest one Bucky’s ever seen. “Let it out, Steve,” he begs quietly. “Please. It’s me, it’s Bucky. You can let go around me, you know that.”

Steve’s shaking his head. “It’s not that…”

“I know.” And Bucky does. He knows that it’s not because Steve doesn’t trust him. Steve trusts Bucky with his life for Heaven’s sake. It’s because he wants to be strong, wants to prove to himself that he can man up about this. But the thing is: he doesn’t have to.

Steve sighs and buries his head in the crook of Bucky’s neck. Bucky drags his fingertips across the warm skin of Steve’s back, tracing patterns along the notches of his spine. He pulls Steve closer when he begins to feel a damp spot on his neck, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

He feels Steve’s body begin to shake, and then he chokes out a sob.

“Shh,” Bucky whispers, “it’s okay, let it out, I’m here.”

From beneath Bucky, Steve shakes his head. “I just c-can’t believe she’s really….gone,” he says brokenly, a fresh batch of tears falling from what Bucky can only imagine are severely bloodshot eyes.

“I know, baby, I know.”

Not another word leaves Steve’s lips for the rest of the night and when Bucky feels the skin on his neck start to dry up, he knows Steve’s stopped crying and he’s fallen asleep.

Bucky holds him so close that night he thinks they’re one person.

_That’s because we are._

 

 

**SEPTEMBER 1939**

 

Three years pass but Steve never moves in to live with Bucky’s family. He tried to live there for a week or two, but just couldn’t stay away from his old apartment. He missed his mother too much and it was the only place that was solid in his life. So he went back and told the landlord before his two weeks notice was over that he was going to stay and keep the apartment. Bucky had waited outside for him, leaning against a lamp pole, arms crossed over his chest. When Steve came out smiling brightly at him, all he could do was return the smile, wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him close as they walked back to Bucky’s house to get Steve’s things.

The Thursday morning that followed left Steve in utter confusion. Bucky had dropped by early before going to the docks for work, used the spare key under the brick by the door to let himself in, and left a small suitcase full of his clothes with a small tray of shortbread cookies balanced on top of it. Along with the suitcase and food was a small note written out in Bucky’s sloppy half-print half-script handwriting.

_Steve,_

_I know you know this, but I get home from the docks every night at 5. Don’t bother cooking or anything, I’ll be happy to make something when I get home as doing my part around the house. Because I’m moving in with you. Can’t let you have all the fun by yourself now, can I? My Ma insisted I bring over the shortbread, she knows how much you like the way she makes it. See you tonight._

_Yours,  
Bucky_

When Bucky returned home that chilly autumn evening back in 1936, new callouses blooming on his fingertips, back aching from the strain of picking up heavy crates, just one look at Steve sitting at the kitchen table, eyes boring into his half empty cup of coffee, and every ache and pain became nonexistent.

But Bucky was still unsure whether or not Steve even wanted him here. He tried to tell him as much.

“Steve, look, I totally understand if you don’t want me here I just—“

“Buck.” Steve had looked up from his coffee and stared at him seriously, before his lips betrayed him and he grinned. “Just shut up and make dinner. I’m starving.”

And from that day on Steve and Bucky lived together.

Bucky knows Steve remembers that day three years ago, where he all but gracefully moved into Steve’s apartment. Sometimes he can see the note he’d written peeking out of one of the pages of Steve’s sketchbook. He’d plucked it from the edge of the book once, unsure exactly what it was. Steve wrestled him for a total of seven seconds before his breathing started to get ragged and rough and his arms loosened their grip around Bucky’s throat.

“What’s so embarrassing about a piece of paper, Stevie? Got a dame I don’t know about?” He teased as he carefully undid the folds, only to have his own handwriting staring him back in the face.

“That’s why,” Steve practically whined, his own face going red while he pointed at Bucky’s.

“You…” Bucky breathed out the beginning of a question he never finished asking. _You kept it?_ is what he’d meant to ask, but he didn't really have to. _Of course_ Steve kept it. He pulled Steve into his arms and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re the greatest guy in all of Brooklyn, you know that?”

“Whatever happened to all of New York City?” Steve chuckled into his neck.

“All of New York _State_.”

“Much better.” Steve smiled against his skin, dotted small kisses across his throat. Bucky had laid back the couch cushions, Steve resting on top of him. Steve had made quick work of him and Bucky lost himself in a moan that sounded dangerously similar to Steve’s name.

 

 

**DECEMBER 1941**

 

“I’m nervous, Stevie,” Bucky says while they walk to the art school. December has just begun and it’s already started to snow. Steve shivers a little next to him and Bucky pulls him closer, hoping to radiate some of his heat.

“What’s to be nervous about?” Steve asks, watching his breath fan out in front of him. His cheeks and nose are rosy, and a few snowflakes cling to his lashes. He feels Bucky shrug next to him. “Bucky, I’ve taught you the basics. You’re not gonna look like an idiot…and if you do, well…”

They turn down Dean Street and the school comes into view. Bucky huffs. “Steve you’re probably the top of your class, I’m gonna look like an idiot in there because I can hardly draw a line without thinkin’ too much about it.”

Steve stops walking so Bucky does too, turning to look at him. He arches an eyebrow in question. “Don’t be ridiculous, Buck. You’ll do just fine and I’ll be sitting right next to you and I’ll help.” Bucky doesn’t look convinced. Bucky _isn’t_ convinced. Steve rolls his eyes and takes a second approach. “This is your only day off because of the snow and you said you wanted to spend it with me. So stop freaking out over whether or not you can draw a damn circle and spend the day with me, Bucky, _come on._ ”

That seems to do it. Bucky’s brow falls back into place and a smile begins to grow across his face. Steve crosses the distance between the two of them and begins walking again. Bucky falls into step with him easily and together they walk down the block of the school, up the stairs of the building, and through the door.

Bucky’s been here before. Sometimes he’d wait around in the lobby for Steve’s class to end, a girl on each arm, ready to surprise him with a double date. However, he’s never actually been in one of the classes before. But now here he is.

It started a few days earlier in the week. _It_ being Bucky’s idea. Bucky’s idea being asking Steve to show him a thing or two with his art. His original plan did not involve this class...but it did involve spending the day with Steve.

_When he got home from work, he found Steve on the couch, freshly showered and bundled in the blanket from the bed and one of Bucky’s thick sweatshirts. He couldn’t have gotten home from the library more than an hour or two ago, where he worked part time, judging by how damp his hair was still._

_Bucky watches him as he unties his shoes, lining them up neatly next to Steve’s, and smiles when Steve looks up from whatever he’s sketching and notices him. After he showers, ridding himself off all the sweat, stress, and smell of saltwater from the day, he plops down on the couch by Steve’s feet, pulling them into his lap, making his hand jerk across the page._

_“Quit messin’ around, you’re gonna screw me up!” Steve chastises softly, kicking Bucky’s arm with his foot._

_Bucky holds his feet firmly, despite Steve’s squirming. “Geez, sorry, what were you drawing that was so special anyway?” He teases._

_“I_ was _drawing your stupid mug, but you made me mess up your eyebrows, you jerk,” Steve quips. He turns to a clean page dramatically._

_“Punk,” Bucky grumbles under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve turn back to the other page when he thinks Bucky isn’t watching. He flips his pencil towards the eraser side, erasing any stray marks. He continues to work on that page, pencil scratching quietly against the paper._

_He watches Steve for the longest time, face set in deep concentration, until the pencil stops moving along with its sound. He raises an eyebrow at Bucky then, a question._ So are you gonna come over here and look? _Bucky does, moving Steve’s feet off his lap and crawling up the space between him and the couch, head settled just below Steve’s chin._

_Bucky is silently awestruck, as he always is whenever Steve shows him his work. He just has this way of capturing Bucky, of making him look like the man Bucky never really saw himself to be. But this is what Steve sees in him, and that alone makes Bucky begin to see it in himself._

_His jaw looks sharp, eyes soft, lips drawn in a sideways smirk. Bucky wants to tell him that it looks great, that his portraits of him always look great, but that’s not what comes out of his mouth._

_“Can you teach me how to draw?” He asks, eyes widening at the sudden realization of what he just said. “That sounds stupid. I was just thinkin’…could you show me some stuff that you know? I’m not expecting to be like you or nothing, but it’d be nice to learn a few things. You’ll know more about something than me for once.” He chuckles towards the end, tilts his head up at Steve to see if he’s even going to consider anything he just said._

_Steve’s already staring at him. He closes his book and threads a hand through the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck. He scratches his scalp and Bucky has to fight to keep his eyes from fluttering shut at the touch. In the end, he loses._

_“What time do you have to be at the docks tomorrow?” He begins to rub the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers kneading into the skin. He’s practically purring at the touch._

_“Seven…eight at the latest.”_

_He hums in reply, fingers beginning to dip under the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “I’ll set up my stuff in the kitchen. You can make us coffee, yeah?”_

_Bucky attempts to move, to get up and start on the coffee in the kitchen, but Steve holds him in place. He’s looking at him like he wants something, so Bucky leans up to kiss him, slow and deep. And this…Bucky doesn’t mind this, in fact he could probably just stay here for the rest of the night, drawing lessons be damned._

_“Alright, c’mon Picasso,” Steve brings him back, pushing at his chest. “Get up and make some coffee.”_

Back in the present, Bucky is shrugging off his coat watching Steve sign their names onto the sign-in sheet at the front desk in his neat handwriting. He unwinds his scarf and holds his coat in his arms, waiting for Steve to unbutton his own and hand it to him so he can hang them up somewhere.

Steve is grinning like an absolute loon as he hands his jacket over to Bucky, walking ahead of him towards where he can only assume is a coat closet. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Steve this happy since before his Ma died. 

“You’re lookin’ like the Cheshire cat, Stevie,” Bucky jokes after he’s hung up their coats.

“Can’t help it. M’jus happy you’re here.” He straightens his tie and shoves his hands in his pockets, leading Bucky towards the classroom. Bucky beams the entire way.

The classroom doesn’t look like the ones Bucky remembers from high school. Honestly, it looks like a cafeteria with a bunch of tables facing a larger one at the front of the room. Steve guides him to a table towards the back, right where the radiator is. When Bucky asks him what they're doing so far from the front, Steve tells him that he likes to press his back up against the radiator whenever he gets cold. "But sometimes the notches of the metal leave marks on my back," he adds. “We can move up though, if you want.” Steve is already getting ready to switch tables, but Bucky’s hand on his wrist stops him.

“Back here s’fine. Rather you be warm.” He pulls Steve back towards him and watches him sit back down, scooting his seat closer.

The instructor comes in a few moments later. He gives a short spiel on what their inspiration is going to be and promises a lecture on art history before the class is over. He turns on the radio at his table, letting the smooth voice of Bing Crosby fill the room.

Bucky stares down at the pencil and paper in front of him and exhales slowly. His eyes drift over towards Steve’s paper, where he’s already begun to go at it, lines and curves coming together effortlessly.

“Relax,” Steve tells him, his eyes never leaving his paper. “Draw anything, it’s not a grade.”

He looks back in front of him and picks up his pencil. He’s hardly got three lines in front of him (good ones, mind you) when the music cuts out from the radio and the jingle for the news grabs everyone’s attention. The president's voice brings the news that the country is going to war. The room falls silent and Bucky pales. His summer tan is long gone, but even Steve’s looking like he has more color than him.

Steve is worried, he’s staring at Bucky and he’s worried. He’s standing from his chair, folding paper in his hands and slipping it into his pocket. He’s talking, but Bucky has no idea what he’s saying, just knows he’s being pulled up from his seat, and lead out the door of the classroom. He vaguely remembers being helped into his coat or the cold air that greeted his face when he stepped outside the building.

“Bucky?” Steve nudges them as the turn the corner down Atlantic Avenue. “C’mon, Buck, say somethin’.”

“Why did we leave?” His voice doesn't sound like his own.

Steve gives him an incredulous look. “We left because it looked like you were five seconds away from passing out, that’s why.”

Bucky doesn’t hear Steve’s answer. Instead, he hears the only thing he remembers from the president’s speech, but in Steve’s voice. “ _Keep in mind the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940. Any and all men between the ages of 21 and 45 must register for the draft.”_  

The year is 1941. Steve is 23 and Bucky is 24. They’ll have to register for the draft.

Three days later they're registering, smiling curtly and making small talk about how they want to serve their country. On the inside they're both equally terrified. Bucky’s not stupid, he caught the way Steve’s hand shook as he filled out his registration form. When it finally comes down to it, one of their names gets drawn, and there’s a letter on their doorstep weeks or months later, Bucky prays to God that it’s addressed to him and not Steve. Steve means absolutely everything to Bucky and he’d rather be ripped from the world by death’s cold fingers then deal with the pain and sadness that would come if it were Steve on the front lines, lifeless and icy cold.

 

 

**JANUARY 1942**

 

Steve never gets accepted into the draft lottery. 

When Bucky was able to get off of work at the docks for a day, he and Steve rode the train across the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan to the U.S. Recruiting and Induction Center at the Harbor. They’d filled out their forms and were in line for their required physicals, and when it was finally Steve’s turn the doctor had rejected Steve’s form after a simple glance at his health record.

_“Sorry son, you have too many health issues to be eligible.”_

Bucky however, had no problem at all with his health records or his physical and his form was accepted. He can tell Steve is upset and an unsettling feeling blooms in chest. Like something bad is going to come out of this trip. The entire ride back to Brooklyn he keeps Steve glued to his side, arm wrapped around his shoulders. Steve’s mouth is set in a permanent frown and nothing seems to change it for the entire ride. Not even when Bucky starts humming Benny Goodman (a sound that Steve could never quite explain how much he adores) towards the last few stops when their train car is practically empty.

They walk home from the station, poke at their dinners (which quickly turn into tomorrow’s leftovers), and take turns showering in utter silence.

Steve’s pressed up against his chest when they get to bed, curled around Bucky’s body and tucked under the covers. Bucky’s on the verge of sleep, ready to bid this horrible day adieu, when Steve finally speaks.

“Are you still friend’s with that guy at Goldie’s?”

Bucky already knows where this is going.

“Because if you are I was thinking that maybe we could start goin’ there.”

“Steve, let’s not get into this right now—“

“Would you do it?”

Bucky wants to smack him upside the head for asking such a thing. “Of course I would, you punk, don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Do you think I could do it? Do you think you could train me enough that I’d get into the draft even with my asthma?”

Bucky kicks him gently with his foot, a gesture that says _turn around so I can see you_ so Steve turns and gives him an annoyed expression. Bucky sees the underlying frustration.

“Why do you wanna do this, Stevie? That’s all I want to know.” Bucky’s not a fool. He knows why Steve wants this and even if he’s off by a few details he’s still pretty solid on his assumption.

“Because you’re gonna get selected, Buck. You’re gonna get selected and I’m gonna be stuck here in good ol’ Brooklyn sweeping the floors and doing the dishes and working at the library hoping you come back. I can’t live like that. If you go— I can’t get stuck here ‘less you’re stuck too.”

The thought of it makes Bucky's stomach lurch. He quickly dismisses the thought with a shake of the head. He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, a lingering press of lips and pulls him close. He feels Steve tense but quickly relax into his touch.

“What makes you think I’m gonna get picked?” Bucky mumbles.

Steve tenses up again and pulls away, gives an exasperated sigh. “God, you really _don’t_ see what I do. Look in one of the store windows on your way to work tomorrow. Maybe it’ll finally get through that thick skull of yours. You don't have asthma, you can throw a punch, and there’s never been a fight I’ve seen you lose…well not to mention you’ve never had to fight me. I’m you’re ultimate competitor anyway,” he’s chuckling now, a sound that blesses Bucky’s ears.

“I’m not meant for this, Steve.” He hardly realizes he’s said it out loud.

“I know,” he tells him definitely. He brushes his lips across Bucky’s neck, humming in response to the sigh he lets out. He starts to press kisses to his skin and he can feel when Bucky finally gives in.

“I’ll talk to my friend at Goldie’s, okay? Call in a few favors…I’ll get our sessions after the gym closes.”

“Thank you, Buck,” Steve says sincerely, but Bucky never hears it. He passes out after his words leave his lips.

Bucky trains him for two weeks at Goldie’s gym, right after closing at 6:30, every day excluding Sunday. Steve puts his all into it through blood, sweat, tears, busted up knuckles, and bruised knees. By the end of it he’s gained a total of three pounds.

The first night they got to the gym, it took all Bucky had in him to not tell Steve that he couldn’t do this and that they should just go home. He had to do this, not just for Steve but for himself. What if he got shipped out and Steve got himself thrown into back alley after back alley fight trying to gain strength that way? At least if things came to that Bucky could leave knowing Steve could hold his own; physically, anyway.

He tells Steve he looks tougher, squints and says, “Hell, you’ve even grown an inch or two,” just to make him smile. It’s nothing like the look on Steve’s face the day they went to the art school together, and Bucky fears he won’t ever see that smile again in his life.

In mid-February Steve and Bucky get back on the train and take a second trip to the Recruiting and Induction Center. Steve asks him if he can wait outside the building for him and Bucky agrees, sitting on the steps of the building while he waits for Steve to come back out.

An hour later and Steve appears at Bucky’s side with a deep set frown on his face. That feeling he felt from the last time they were here is back again, this time bigger and with a voice parallel to his own that screams _this is wrong, this is very, very wrong._ Bucky does his best to ignore it and focus on Steve instead.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think?” Steve snaps.

“What I think is that they said somethin’ different this time and that it wasn’t an exact repeat.” Bucky does his best to keep his voice even as Steve sits next to him on the steps.

“Said I looked bigger, but my health issues ain't doin’ me any good.”

He wraps a comforting arm around Steve’s shoulders. “M’sorry, Stevie—“

“ _Bucky,”_ Steve says warningly, a tone that translates into: _Don’t apologize for something that’s got nothing to do with you._

Bucky zips his mouth shut and doesn’t say another word. They sit for a little while longer before Steve stands and descends down the last few steps, hands buried in his pockets and collar pulled up around his neck. “Let’s go home,” he nods towards the station a block over.

“We can try again,” Bucky suggests once they’re back over the bridge.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says, but instead of sounding sure he sounds tired and Bucky feels about the same way.

They’re back at the gym three days later.

 

 

**OCTOBER 1942**

 

Bucky’s heart is in his throat and he can’t breathe. He forgets how to and when he finally inhales it’s too sharp and he coughs violently until he cups his hands under the faucet in the kitchen and drinks some water. 

The letter is lying on the kitchen table.

Bucky can’t breathe again.

He gulps down some more water and washes his face, watching the droplets drip from his chin and into the sink. Fortunately, Steve is at his art class and isn’t here to witness Bucky’s mental breakdown. For that, Bucky’s thankful because Steve can’t _ever_ know about this so long as he lives.

With shaky hands, he turns back towards the table and runs his thumb across the top of the envelope, tearing it open. He scans the letter slowly, picking out the important words— the words that determine his fate. The short version: he’s been selected and he’s going to a camp in Wisconsin for training. The long version comes long after, when his back is finally against the wall and he has to tell Steve.

The letter says he has a week and a half before he has to leave. So that’s how long Bucky has before the truth spills out.

“Any mail come?” Steve asks later that night. Bucky’s made tea and they’re sitting out on the fire escape. Steve’s still knobby knees fit right through the rails, and while Bucky’s fit as well, they’re not as easy to pull out. He settles for sitting cross legged next to Steve, back pressed against the rails, while Steve’s legs dangle back and forth between them. They enjoy the last pleasing week of October weather before the bitter November cold sneaks in.

Bucky swallows rather loudly at Steve’s question. “Nah, nothing today.” The letter is tucked between the mattress and bed frame where Steve will never find it.

“Okay.” Steve sips his tea quietly, drinks it to the very last honey sweet drop. When he’s finished, he pulls his legs back through the rails and crawls through the window into the apartment. Bucky follows him all the way to the kitchen, setting his mug down in the sink next to Steve’s.

Bucky yawns and stretches his arms over his head, sleep sneaking up on him. Steve is sitting at the kitchen table, sketchbook opened and pencil between his fingers. “You’re tired?”

“Exhausted,” Bucky yawns again.

“Why don’t you go up to bed then? Do you mind if I stay out here a little while longer? I wanna finish up this sketch from class.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugs. He kisses Steve on the cheek as he passes and heads to the bedroom. He pulls the window shut and curls up under the covers, waits for Steve as long as he can, but passes out anyway.

✻

Three days before Bucky has to leave, his entire world caves in on him. The day had been extremely calm, and if that wasn’t the first red flag… Bucky had ignored the weirdly calm atmosphere of the day and went along with it innocently.

The entire day had been a ticking time bomb that Bucky could have never been more unprepared for.

They're doing the dishes after dinner, Bucky washing and Steve drying, when it finally comes out.

“So how much longer are you going to wait?” Steve asks calmly as he’s drying a plate.

Bucky freezes. His heart sinks as he slowly grasps what's happening. “…What?”

“You’re leaving in three days right?” Steve continues casually, his eyes never leaving the plate as he sets it in the rack. “I was just wondering when you were going to let me know. Or maybe you were just gonna run off to Wisconsin in the middle of the night and then tell me all about it when you got back.” And now he looks at Bucky, eyes filled with rage and betrayal.

“Steve...how did you even find out?”

Any glimmer of hope that Steve had of the whole thing being a joke dies right then and there. “You lied to me. You told me there was no mail that day.”

“How did you find out?” Bucky asks again, firmer this time.

Steve throws the dishtowel to the floor, slams a hand on the counter. “I can’t believe you, Bucky! You didn’t think I’d find out?! It’s me for God’s sake! I know you like the back of my fuckin’ hand, of course I saw the envelope sticking out of your mattress!”

Bucky shuts the faucet and dries his hands on his pants. He scrubs them over his face in frustration. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Steve barks a laugh at him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?”

“Steve, please, let me explain.”

“Start talkin’ before I stop listenin’.”

“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even really think I can leave—“

“Don't say that. We both know you’re gonna go.”

“This is gonna consume you,” Bucky jabs a finger at Steve’s chest. “This is all you’re gonna think about and while I’m gone you’re gonna do everything you can to get yourself enlisted, Steve, don’t think I don’t know that.”

Steve looks smaller suddenly and for the longest time Bucky thought he was gonna feel like the one being pinned up against the wall but right now it’s looking like Steve is the one that’s pinned. “I can’t just sit here while you’re out there.”

“Rather it be me than you,” he says, softer now.

Steve’s shaking his head. “You couldn’t just tell me? _Really?_ Why am I finding that so hard to believe?”

Bucky breaks entirely. He braces himself against the counter and tries to steady his breathing. “I’m scared, Stevie. I’m fucking _terrified._ ” He squeezes his eyes shut and his shoulders slump. “You know what comes next when I come back.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am,” Bucky chokes out.

And then he's being pulled away from the counter and into Steve’s arms. “I know how sorry you are. It’s alright.” He rubs a hand up and down Bucky’s back, holding him tight.

“What are we gonna do?” He’s not even sure he really says it.

“How about I don’t get mad at you for the next three days and I’ll try not to get myself too beat up until you come back?”

He laughs wetly and pulls Steve tighter against him. “Okay, okay we can do that.”

Steve’s real good to him in the days leading up to his departure. The small suitcase he’d used when he moved in all those years ago sits by the door in their bedroom. Inside it, sitting on top of all of his clothes is a picture of Steve that he’d snagged from the photo album in the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

On the night before he has to leave, Steve keeps him up in bed for an hour, leaving Bucky a moaning, pliant mess beneath him, relaxing his frayed nerves for the time being. While sucking a dark mark on Bucky’s inner thigh he asks, “You’re gonna write to me right? Let me know what basic is like for me when I get there?”

Bucky moans when Steve drags his tongue over the blooming mark on his skin. “Of course I’m gonna write. Write you the first night I get there.”

“Good.” And Bucky can practically hear the smile in his voice when he says it. He kisses both of Bucky’s thighs and crawls up his body, rolls over onto his back, and curls into Bucky’s side. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says eventually.

“Gonna miss you too,” he sighs. He stares up at the ceiling and listens to Steve breathe beside him. He’s drifted off but Bucky knows sleep is not in his sights; not tonight. The tightness in his chest keeps him up for the rest of the night, and he considers himself lucky that he dozes off for almost twenty minutes before that bad feeling wakes him up again.

He imagines Steve’s voice in his head telling him to relax in that serene tone that is so unmistakably _Steve,_ and that calms him down if only the slightest.

When the morning comes, Bucky does his best to save them both the heartache. He slowly inches out of bed and takes the quietest shower in the world. Steve is still passed out when he comes out of the shower and only stirs once while Bucky’s styling his hair in the bathroom with pomade. He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, lingers a bit before he leaves. He smooths Steve’s hair back and commits his face to memory.

Then he’s grabbing his suitcase and he’s out the door, off to Wisconsin for the rest of the winter.

 

 

**JUNE 1943**

 

Bucky stays true to his word. The proof is in the stack of letters wrapped in butcher’s twine stuffed between the mattress and the bed frame. Waiting for the mail became Steve’s favorite pastime and each letter was better than the last.

Each letter Bucky had sent had been closed off with a warm and familiar, _Yours, Bucky._ Two little words that he signed off on every letter or note that he’s ever left for Steve. Steve thinks that’s what he loved most about each letter he received. Those two words were like a vise around his heart, a tightness he so very much welcomed each time he’d finished reading. Almost like a reminder that training camp didn't change Bucky. That he was still the same man Steve knew before he left.

Bucky came home in the middle of March. Steve waited at the train station for him and the moment Bucky stepped off the train he dropped his bag and pulled Steve into a long overdue embrace. But something was different…Bucky seemed _off._ He still smiled the same, his eyes were still the soft blue he remembered, he still looked at Steve as though he was Bucky’s whole world, but something wasn’t quite right.

He seemed tougher, stiffer, and sadly…he seemed colder. And while he came across differently to almost everyone in Brooklyn, when it was just him and Steve, he was the same Bucky Barnes that Steve fell in love with all those years ago and yet not the same at all. It seemed the salutation in Bucky's letter wasn't as convincing as Steve once believed them to be.

When Steve told Bucky that he’d tried to enlist a few times while he was gone, he didn’t get upset. When he told Bucky that he might’ve had to change a few details on his registration form…that part didn’t go over so well.

_“Steve, watch yourself.”_

_“I am. I’m careful with it. I’m gonna at least get to basic.”_

_“I can’t get you out of this if it goes sour.” He says carefully._

_“I know, Buck. Don’t worry about it okay?”_

Even with that awkward conversation, Bucky had missed Steve to no end. The time he spent away was like being dehydrated for months and upon returning home was like being quenched of his thirst.

Bucky spends every free moment he has with Steve when he gets home. He tries to get back in the swing of things, tries to pick up on all the events he missed while he was away. He learns of Steve’s enlistment attempts, and that upsets him, but he’s happier to find out that he got a few art jobs. He’s done detailing for a few movie posters at the cinema. Bucky takes a look at them on the way home from his now part-time job down at the docks.

He keeps up his appearances, going on dates on the nights when Steve’s in deep concentration with a new art job he picked up. The only other time he’s really out on his own is when he gets a letter from the Recruitment and Induction Center for updates on when he's supposed to ship out again.

More than a few times on his way home, he’d caught Steve getting beat to a pulp in a back alley or behind a diner and he’d stepped in to break it up. Because while Steve can fend for himself a little better now, it’s still not doing him much good. It’s nothing different from how things were before he’d left though. He’s used to coming to Steve’s aid and helping him out. Used to dragging him back to the apartment, leaning him up against the bathroom sink, cleaning the cuts and soothing the bruises on his skin. It’s something he knows well.

He’s not gonna say he missed cleaning Steve up after scuffles and back alley fights because that’s just a shitty thing to say, but he did miss taking care of Steve. He missed the way Steve would always lean into his touch even if it irritated the cuts on his cheek. Missed the way he'd turn his head and kiss Bucky's palm afterwards. But the one thing he missed the most was Steve’s art. Specifically, the many portraits that Steve has of Bucky. It was one of the first things he’d asked to see when they got back to the apartment.

_“You wanna see drawings…of yourself. Conceited are we?” Steve jokes, grabbing his sketchbook._

_“No, it’s not that. I just…I wanna see what I look like again. I wanna see_ me _again.”_

_Steve smirks at him. “Haven’t changed a bit, Buck. Sharp jaw, bright eyes, dangerous smile…I could go on forever.”_

_Bucky laughs softly as he leafs through the book Steve hands him. He catches sight of his face and immediately feels at ease, starts to feel like himself again._

Steve is recovering from a back alley brawl and a bad cold a week later. It’s hot and humid in the apartment, the air like a thick, suffocating blanket even with all the windows open. Bucky is curled up next to Steve on the couch, his usual sketching spot, and he's watching the pencil in Steve’s hand with every stroke it makes across the paper.

The image coming to life on the paper is definitely from Steve’s memory because Bucky can’t identify it with anything in the room. But then the details start coming together and Bucky can finally make out what it is. He’s drawing the Cyclone and Coney Island and Bucky briefly goes back in time two summers ago when they went there and he got Steve to ride the rollercoaster after much convincing. Long story short: Steve threw up and then rode it two more times.

Bucky kisses Steve’s neck to get his attention. “Hey.”

Steve smiles. “Hi.”

“So I might be leaving again soon…”

“Mhm,” Steve hums, never missing a beat. He continues to sketch.

“I was wondering if maybe you could draw somethin’ for me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Want another picture of you, Buck? Scared you might forget what you look like?”

“Shut up,” he shoves him. “I was actually wondering if you could draw yourself.” Steve says nothing, just waits for Bucky to elaborate because he knows there’s more to it than that. “I want something that you did, y’know? Besides, the picture I took with me to basic was when we were kids. I want to remember what you look like now.”

Steve arches a brow and smiles warmly. He places his pencil in the crease of his book and sets it down carefully on the floor. He scoots down so his head is resting on the arm of the chair, Bucky still tucked tightly between his side and the back of the couch.

“Give me a few days, okay? I’ll get you somethin’ real good.”

He presses a kiss to Steve’s jaw. “Thank you.”

 _Anything for you,_ Steve thinks to himself. He lets Bucky continue to pepper him with kisses until his lips finally meet his and they’re making out.

No sooner does Steve get over his cold and his cuts have healed, does he end up right back where he started, getting thrown into a bunch of trashcans in an alleyway by a guy with no fucking respect.

Steve had finished the self-portrait he promised Bucky that morning, but when he woke up Bucky was nowhere to be found. So he skipped breakfast and headed out to the train station and over the bridge to try and enlist again, hoping to get assigned to the 107th, to Bucky’s infantry. Upon getting rejected for the fourth time, he went back to Brooklyn and spent the next hour or two at the cinema, not really there to watch anything, but to sit and collect his thoughts while a cartoon or two ran.

But then some wise guy couldn’t keep his mouth shut and when Steve had shouted at him to show some respect…well that’s how he got where he is now.

“Hey!” He hears a shout from where he’s hobbled over trashcans and then he hears a fist collide with skin, a hard kick, and then silence.

“You know sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

It’s Bucky’s voice.

“I had him on the ropes," Steve sighs.

Steve gets to his feet and tries to clean himself off. He brushes the dirt from his trousers, rubs at the corner of his lip, inhales deeply…all while Bucky plucks the folded up slip of paper from the concrete and reads it. “How many times is this?” He asks as he scans the card. “Oh, you’re from Paramus now? You know it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment forms. And seriously, Jersey?” 

And yeah, Steve _knows_ it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment forms. That’s what Bucky tells him every time he gets rejected. He’s already thinking of a reason to give for this attempt when he finally gets a look at Bucky. Suddenly it all makes sense as to why he wasn’t in bed that morning.

He looks Bucky up and down, taking in every inch of his clothing. “You get your orders?” but it’s not a question. He feels like he can’t breathe, but there’s still air passing in and out of his lungs.

Bucky gives him a pleading look. _I’m sorry, I should have said where I was going this morning. I’m sorry for seeming so tough and closed off, but it’s because I’m scared, Stevie, I’m scared all over again._ Steve reads that look clear as day.

“The 107th, Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

“I should be going,” Steve says automatically. He wants to be there with Bucky, wants to stay at his side because he thinks he might lose his mind if he has to stay here while Bucky’s out on the front lines, risking his life. He claps his hands together to rid his palms of the remaining dirt from before and looks up at him. _I can’t believe you’re actually going,_ he communicates silently.

He looks so small in that moment. Bucky matches Steve’s look, swallowing thickly. _I know._

Before he lets himself start panicking about how he’s actually leaving tomorrow, he smiles widely and pulls Steve into his side, walking back out towards the sidewalk. “C’mon man, it’s my last night. We’ve gotta get you cleaned up.”

“Why, where’re we goin’?”

“The future.”

The future is a double date at the Stark Expo in Queens. It was on short notice, Bucky wanted to hang out with just Steve for the night, but Connie and her cousin got involved and now here they are. Steve doesn’t particularly care for dames, cares less for double dates, and Bucky knows _that,_ but he couldn’t exactly get out of this one.

Steve goes missing only minutes after Howard Stark’s demonstration of his prototype hover car. Bucky suggested they take their dates dancing, but when he looked behind him Steve was nowhere to be seen. The panic settles in quickly, but then he catches sight of an Uncle Sam poster and immediately everything comes together.

He finds Steve wandering around a Recruitment tent, more than likely attempting to enlist a fifth time. When he gets close enough he wraps a hand around his shoulder, turns him around to face him. His attempts to persuade Steve to go dancing with their dates fails and Bucky snaps.

“You’re really gonna do this again?” He clenches his jaw in an attempt to keep his voice even.

Steve shrugs at him. “Well it’s a fair. I’ll try my luck.”

“As who? Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you. Worse they’ll actually take you.” And _there_ it is. That’s the reaction Steve’s been looking for since the first time he mentioned how many times he’s tried to enlist. Something seemed different when Bucky came back and _this_ is it. This is the hardness that Steve picked out the moment Bucky stepped off that train. That camp changed him, opened his eyes to something Steve doesn’t have a word for.

“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this,” Steve begins.

Then they’re arguing.

“ _Bucky._ Bucky, come on!” He snaps his mouth shut at the sound of his name and let’s Steve continue. “There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less then them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”

That’s where Steve is wrong. Bucky does understand. He knows why Steve wants to do this. He doesn’t want to be the only guy left in New York because he was too scrawny to fight the good fight and sock it to ol’ Hitler. He doesn’t want to be here while Bucky’s off at war. He's said it a countless number of times, and yet now it’s “not about him”. Bucky knows Steve better than that.

“Right,” Bucky’s eyes are hard, jaw set, “ ‘cause you got nothin’ to prove…” He looks up to the Heavens and sighs. “Don’t do anything stupid ’til I get back.” They can continue this when he gets home he supposes, but then Steve might already be passed out when he gets there. He starts to walk back towards the girls.

“How can I?” Steve retorts. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Bucky stops, turns, and walks right back towards him, brows raised. “You’re a punk,” he says, pulling Steve into a hug.

“Jerk,” he pats Bucky on the back. “Be careful.” He watches Bucky walk away again, thinks fast and says, “Don’t win the war until I get there!”

Bucky salutes him, and then he’s gone.

Later that night, after he’s walked the girls home, he’s gotten back to Brooklyn, the apartment is completely dark. He expects to find Steve passed out in bed, but when he gets to the bedroom the bed is empty and the window is wide open.

Steve is out on the fire escape, leaning against the rails, knees drawn up, bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from his fingers.

Bucky announces his presence with a cough. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“Well I’m not,” Steve tells him dryly.

He sets his hat down on the mattress and climbs out the window, crawling on his knees towards Steve’s seated figure. He plucks the bottle from Steve’s fingers and takes a swig. “Little late for this isn’t it?” He tips the bottle in question.

“I don't think so.”

He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own. “What’s goin’ on with you, Steve? It’s me, you can tell me.”

“You seem different, Buck,” he slurs. “Ev’r since you came home.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Depends," he grins.

Bucky huffs loudly. “I don’t know, Steve. I guess I just realized this isn’t a joke. I can’t avoid this anymore. I’m going whether I like it or not.”

“There it is,” Steve snaps his fingers. “That’s why you seem so different.”

Bucky laughs to himself. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re not drunk enough.” He grabs the bottle and takes another drink. “Still wish I was going with you…”

Bucky bangs his head back against the rails and squeezes his eyes shut. “Are we having this conversation again…?”

“Not tonight, Sarge.” He chances a look at Steve then, whose eyes are shining and he’s grinning, he’s grinning so wide… Once again Bucky finds himself trying to commit every line of Steve’s face to memory.

“C’mon,” he nods towards the window. He grabs the bottle and gets to his feet, holding his hand out to help Steve up. They get to their feet and duck through the window and onto the mattress.

They make slow, silent work of dressing down to their shorts, and rejoin once again in bed, window still open, covers pushed down to their ankles. Steve takes his place tucked under Bucky’s chin for what may or may not be the last time.

“I finished your picture, by the way,” Steve says with a sleep stupid tongue.

“Hm?” Bucky yawns.

“That drawing you wanted. Of me. I finished it…was gonna give it to you this morning…”

“Right…” he says softly. “Where is it?”

Steve is slow with his answer as he begins to drift off. “Left it on the kitchen…” Bucky clues in the rest of that sentence and feels Steve slip from consciousness in his arms. He presses a kiss to the to of Steve’s head and let’s the familiarity and tranquility of falling asleep like this find him one final time.

Bucky’s long gone when Steve wakes the next morning. Steve’s skin buzzes with the warmth of last night and there’s a name wrapped around his tongue that undoubtedly is the only thing he thinks he’ll be able to say for the rest of the morning.

He trudges out into the kitchen and the first thing he sees is a note on the table. He identifies Bucky’s handwriting immediately.

_Steve,_

_I didn’t want to wake you. Hope you slept okay. You look real handsome in this picture, you know that? Didn’t mean to get so upset at you last night at the Expo…just trying to help. Can’t let you get into any trouble without me, can I? I’ll write as soon as I’m settled in. Be careful._

_Yours,  
Bucky_

 

 

**NOVEMBER 1943**

 

The serum worked.

Honestly, he’s still surprised.

Bucky on the other hand can’t believe he just made it out of a HYDRA base alive. Can’t believe that in a rare moment, it was Steve that came to his rescue. Steve, the last person he thought would come to save him in a situation in which he thought he was going to die.

Honestly, he's still surprised he’s got a pulse.

Steve’s different now, physically anyway, but Bucky’s different too. Different than the innocent man whose hands shook when he received his induction letter. Different than the hard headed man that went through extreme training. He’s seen things he’s too scared to admit to anyone, even Steve. Unless, he thinks as a bitter joke, Steve got him drunk enough.

These days he never says no to a glass of whiskey or a drag on a cigarette that’s almost down to the filter.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bucky tells him in the privacy of Steve’s tent, nursing a glass of Jack Daniels; Steve’s glass, actually. He finished his a while back. He’s got enough alcohol in him to be drunk but he still feels way too sober.

“Told ya I’d get here. One way or another,” he chuckles lowly.

“You remember the night before I shipped out? That argument we had?” Bucky says suddenly.

“Yeah…why?”

“I think the reason I got so upset at you… This is war, Steve. You’re meant for more than this.” Bucky traces his thumb around the rim of his glass and awaits Steve’s answer.

“Would you laugh if I said you’re the second person this week to tell me that?”

He laughs silently, shakes his head. “Who beat me to it?”

“Agent Carter.”

“Figures.”

Their chuckles dissolve quickly and silence takes over. Bucky still means what he said. This base, this tent, this war? This was no place for the two of them.

“I told you that once too, you know.”

“Told me what?” He feels his thoughts begin to collide with each other. His brain begins to swim and he thinks the alcohol finally kicks in.

“Told you that you weren’t meant for this.” Steve moves closer and then they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. _Shoulder to shoulder,_ Bucky thinks. Never thought he’d live to see that day. 

“I know.”

“You remember that?” Steve asks quietly.

“I remember it every damn day.”

He remembers it because this is not their narrative. Yet somehow, they’re the main characters. Somewhere in some sort of altered timeline, they get it right. They stay in Brooklyn and they get it right. This Bucky is certain of. 

Steve lies down on the too tiny bed and pulls Bucky with him. He’s half on top of him and half at his side, but he’s not complaining. He thought five months ago was the last time he'd have Steve this close to him, and he’s not about to let that go now He pulls himself impossibly closer to Steve and buries his head in his neck. He presses secret kisses to new skin that is also not new but excruciatingly familiar instead. Because Steve is Bucky’s and Bucky is Steve’s and if Bucky’s being honest with himself they’re the same damn person anyway. 

The person that knows him like the back of his hand, that can read him like an open book even when the pages are damp and the ink is streaking. 

They’re two halves of one soul that always find each other again if they stray too far.

Two Brooklyn boys that tried so hard to extinguish the flames around them that they became engulfed.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://jerkrogers.tumblr.com) c:


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